


Arms Full of Scientist

by DreamingOwl



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Hemingwells, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:12:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingOwl/pseuds/DreamingOwl
Summary: Wells really, really doesn't like the dark. Hemingway tries to help. Lenore ships it. SUPER AU.





	1. Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiritedwords](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Spiritedwords).



> Blame Spiritedwords for this, because she shipped Hemingwells for a week in the middle of the series. I wrote bits of this to cheer her up, and never got around to concluding it because of RL. But RL has gone away for a few weeks, so I get to relax and write and do all the things one does when school isn't in session. But anyway. Because much of this was written in the middle, before we knew the end or who would die or survive, things are different. Majorly different. Also, I thought Annabel was a ghost. Blame Lenore's draw your life. Anyway, enjoy! It's cute. I promise. Also, I don't own Poe Party.

“Are you coming?” Hemingway ducked his head back into the study, where Wells was still sitting on the floor.

“Oh, oh yes,” Wells scrambled to regain his feet, falling as he became caught on a wire.

“You idiot,” Hemingway grumbled, striding over to the effeminate inventor. With the other author’s help, Wells was able to stand.

“Let’s go,” the taller man steered the other toward the doorway, a hand on his shoulder. They made their way toward the others.

They were in the hallway when the lights went out. Wells shrieked and Hemingway suddenly found himself with his arms full of scientist.

They stood in silence for a moment, then another.

“Um buddy?” Hemingway spoke into the darkness, “Are you okay?” A viable question, considering Wells was shaking like a leaf in a strong wind.

“Umm, yes?” Wells answered, sounding unsure. “Yes, he repeated, a little more false bravado in his voice.

“Right,” Hemingway skeptically responded. Then he softened, patting the small man on the back as the lights came on.

Wells pulled away from Hemingway, blushing, red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks Hemingway reached into a pocket and offered up a flask. Wells took it gratefully, uncapping it and draining the last quarter. Hemingway raised a brow, but said nothing, tucking it away again. That was only his first emergency flask.

“Thank you,” Wells spoke softly, “And I’m sorry for, well, that.”

“It’s fine mate,” Hemingway grinned, “Let’s go see what happened this time.”


	2. I Ship It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenore wants to be helpful.

Krishanti was dead—that had been the scream, as Dickinson saw the murder. The lights going out had helped to cover her own murder, although it had taken a few minutes for the others to notice her body.

Once again, they split up. Lenore and Wells had returned to the attic, while the others divided themselves.

“You know, ghost-human relationships rarely work out.”

“Oh?” Wells questioned, looking up from the handheld device he was trying to create. After his… embarrassing display earlier, he’d become inclined to devise a portable torch that would rely on electricity. He justified it by the fact that it could prevent another killing in the dark.

“Ghosts don’t age. We get stronger, of course, but our appearance stays the same. Horribly awkward if a sixty-year old man was cavorting about with a beautiful twenty-year-old ghost. And the physical… non-existent mostly. Usually it’s better that like keeps to like. Less suicides that way.”

“Then Mr. Poe and Miss Lee…” Wells scrunched up his face. He was fairly certain the young woman was dead.

“A tragedy waiting to happen, but then I think Edgar wouldn’t know what to do if things weren’t that way.” Lenore snorted and observed his work.

“You should warn Hemingway off then,” Wells commented, sliding a magnifier in front of his left eyepiece, “He’s been nearly as persistent as our host.”

“Warn him off for you, you mean?” Lenore smiled smugly.

“I have no interest in Miss Lee!”

“But you do have an interest in Hemingway, don’t you?”

Wells turned bright scarlet, “He, he is simply very kind to me!”

A yell for Lenore prevented any more teasing.

“It’s okay, H.G., your secret is safe with me,” the ghost smiled and laughed, eyes twinkling, “I totally ship it though.”


	3. Closets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenore is helpful some more. Hemingway downs his tertiary emergency flask.

Wilde was dead. Poe had discovered the pattern in the murders. It seemed likely Wells would be next and he spared a thought to be grateful he hadn’t had a chance to send Lenore away. Had he done so, he might already be dead. His camera device was almost fully operational- Lenore simply needed to do one little thing so it would have power. Meanwhile, the remaining group was arguing how to best protect the scientist.

Hemingway pulled Wells aside, “Are you doing alright?”

“Ah yes, of course yes. Except that a murderer likely wants my head, but other than that, yes.”

“If you’re sure,” Hemingway frowned. The two men were drawn back into the dominant conversation. Neither noticed Lenore as she slipped behind them and into a closet, emerging only moments later.

The Lady Ghost stepped in front of the men, concentrated her effort and will, then pushed them both into the closet. It was the work of a moment to lock the door, trapping them within.

“Lenore!” Wells called out, “Lenore, please, let us out!”

“You’ll be safe in there,” Lenore promised.

Poe frowned, “What if Hemingway is the killer?”

Lenore didn’t dignify the comment with a response.

Inside the closet, Wells was having a minor panic attack. The space was enclosed, suffocatingly dark and soon to be stifling hot. If he had a problem with the dark, being trapped only made it worse.

Blindly he reached for the door handle. Wells’ hand collided with something solid, even as his breath hitched on a sob. He missed the gasp Hemingway made, but the texture of fabric rather than steel made it clear he had missed his target.

“S-sorry,” he gasped.

“It’s fine, are you okay buddy?” Hemingway asked again. Wells felt like that question had been asked a lot of him. Two large hands firmly gripped his arms, “It was cruel of her to lock us in here.”

“Didn’t know,” Wells mumbled. Even struggling to breathe he felt the need to absolve Lenore. In her own slightly-misguided way she only wanted to help him.

“Yeah, well, she wouldn’t need to if she hadn’t LOCKED US IN A DAMN CLOSET!” Hemingway’s rage went nowhere as the lack of a response suggested the others had left. Again.

Wells continued struggling to stay in control. If he could only think _,_ he might be able to get them out of there.

Meanwhile, Hemingway was trying to figure out how to help the other man. Clearly, he was struggling, the alcoholic didn’t need sight to know that much. “What is your name?”

“My name?”

Hemingway continued his distraction efforts, “Your name. Your parents weren’t cruel enough to name you H.G. were they?”

“No,” Wells’ breath caught on a laugh this time, “they named me properly.”

“What is it then?”

“Herbert, Herbert George.”

“That’s….”

“I think,” Wells gasped, “Lenore would call it,” another gasp, “a terrible name.”

“Probably but what does she know?” Hemingway’s distraction tactic was clearly not working on the not-a-damsel in distress.

If Wells _was_ a damsel, kissing him would do the trick. It was a pity H.G. wasn’t a damsel.

Hemingway froze. It was a bad plan. A very bad, definitely-to-be-blamed-on-how-drunk-he-was plan.

It might just work. But first, fortification. He pulled his tertiary emergency flask out and drained the contents. Wells continued to hyperventilate. Hemingway steeled himself. He hadn’t done anything like this since that time in Paris with Fitzgerald.

He shouldn’t think about that. It hadn’t ended well.

Hemingway reached out again and found Wells’ arms, then extrapolated his head position from there. The author who spent too much time on a boat stepped forward, bringing himself within Wells’ personal space.

“God, you really are short, aren’t you?” Hemingway asked. The inventor was a good five inches shorter.

The fisherman finally stopped stalling, bent a little, and kissed the other man.

They were still doing so when Lenore decided to let them out.

“Hey guys…” the Lady Ghost trailed off, taking in the scene in front of her. Poe peered around her, blaunched, and covered Annabel’s eyes before covering his own.

“Kissing, people kissing, why are people kissing in my closet?”

Hemingway broke away from the very red, thankfully no-longer-hyperventilating Wells. “Your ghost locked us in here. We had to pass the time somehow.”

“Passing the time, ah, ah, yes, precisely,” Wells nodded vigorously.

“Well the killers have been caught. They’re gone. Not dead, no, none of them are dead, but the Bronte’s are arrested and Eddie is gone. Fled. Not dead. Fled,” Poe rambled. Annabel smiled gently at him. Lenore rolled her eyes.

“Can you believe Charlotte couldn’t realize that I am already dead?” Lenore asked the group. They assembled in the entryway and the others filled in the details of what had happened once the boys were locked up.

Wells blushed and refused to look at Hemingway the entire time, but it didn’t escape Lenore’s notice that they left together, Hemingway’s arm around Wells’ shoulders.

Then again, the man was drunk, so perhaps he simply needed the support to stay upright.

The Lady Ghost smiled. At least one good thing had come of this dreadful night.

Now how to get the blood out of that carpet?


End file.
